Plumes in Red
by PassionandPromise
Summary: John often wondered why he saw them, and why they captivated him so much. Every time, when he comes close to death, he sees them, and he wonders how. Maybe now as he lies dying, they can finally stop pesturing him... Happy Valentine's Day!


_**Plumes in Red**_

_"You know when you are in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams"_

_**Dr. Seuss**_

John always wondered why he saw them, whenever he was in danger. It never truly dawned on him that what he was seeing was, indeed, real. He always believed that by some strange coincidence that involved disaster and the general idea that he was going to die within the next few minutes, a plumage of wings and feathers would scatter in his pain-glazed eyes, his vision framed by light and the shadow of his arms blocking his line of sight.

Sometimes, when he was dismally sad, he would catch a glimpse of something not quite there, and the world would seem fine again. The feathers would scatter around his body in perfect circles, dancing around him, telling him that the world may be cruel, but he always had this little joy to experience.

When he was in Afghanistan, he remembered the vibrantly excruciating moment when he almost died in the sands of some small village. The blood was everywhere, caking his clothes, the sand. But there were also the wings, on the backs of his friends, as they carried him off the battlefield. In that one moment alone, John felt he was facing more than death: maybe even the presence of angels.

And now, as he dozed on his armchair with eyes closed, he was adamant that he could feel the flutter of a feather as it tickled his cheek. His eyes fluttered open slowly, like the wings of a fragile butterfly, and he sighed comfortably, settling further back into his armchair. But it was persistent, this tickling on his cheek and neck, and he woke up fully, to see a pair of striking, silver eyes stare back into his. He wasn't given the chance to understand who was in front of him: suddenly, a pair of hands set into his sides and launched him up from where he sat.

"John?" a familiar voice echoed, and he smiled sleepily. It was Sherlock… only Sherlock. "Please don't fall asleep on me." Sherlock sounded worried, almost pained over the words he spoke, as John slowly closed his eyes.

"Keep playing. I can hear you still," he mumbled against Sherlock's longcoat. He snuggled closer, feeling warmer, and then shivered slightly when he felt himself encased in the comforting warmth of something downy and soft.

They were tickling his fingers now.

"Please John, please don't fall asleep on me," Sherlock sounded as if he was crying now. Under John's cheek, his chest groaned with agony, and John stirred again.

"Don't worry 'bout it, Sherlock. Just play the violin. I can hear you," he mumbled again, and as he closed his eyes, he noticed this one white feather with a single black spot taint his vision, as it swirled through his muddled mind and landed lightly on his knee in front of him.

Sherlock's feather- Sherlock's wing.

John had only ever seen Sherlock's wings twice in his life; after the bomb jacket had been viciously removed, and when he was trapped in those Baskerville cages. Yes, he's always known they were there. He had seen them many times before, but never as brilliantly as he saw them those two, fleeting, times.

They glowed white: pure, untainted, with speckles of black dotting each downy feather, like an all-too wise owl. Yes, it did seem right: Sherlock was too much of a bloody know-it-all to be anything other than an owl anyway. And as he gazed upward, and saw that face again, he saw them, and they blinded him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, before he felt the world crashing down around his ears, his body, and the whole world exploded in front of him-

"John! The ambulance is on its way!" Sherlock all but howled, squeezing his limbs too tightly, and John took in an all but suffocating breath. Was he in trouble? What was happening?

Was that why he could see these breath-taking wings again?

"I thought you were playing the violin," John whispered confusedly, his hand falling from where it had gripped Sherlock's longcoat.

"By God John, I wish I was," Sherlock replied, pulling John's hand onto his lap and cuddling him closer, his head hidden as it rested on John's shoulder, earning John a warm inhale of Sherlock's homely scent. John closed his eyes and relaxed as the feathers tickled his nose and cheeks. They felt like pillows: they cradled him, just as Sherlock was cradling him now.

"Why am I on the ground, Sherlock? Is everything alright?" he asked tiredly. He couldn't feel a bone in his numbed body: he truly felt cut off from the whole world right now. He let his head loll onto Sherlock's chest as Sherlock pulled himself back to look down at the state of his friend. Sherlock was on the edge of despair.

"You can't feel the knife wound?"

Again that determined vision of Sherlock's ethereal and ever-beautiful wings stunned him into silence. He couldn't speak a word and stared at them, wondering dazedly if he really had lost his mind. He felt bundled up in Sherlock's arms, safe. He did not feel the knife wound, nor any pain of any sort. The warning bells that started to ring in his mind were too faraway for him to pay attention to.

"John, listen to me: can you or can you not, feel the knife wound?" Again the persistency.

"No Sherlock… I can't," he closed his eyes, too tired to fight back.

They were dancing around him now. He knew they were. Small circles, landing on his fingers, his lap, his legs.

They were singing to him, gently lulling him to fall asleep… just to sleep, just for a few minutes-

"John, I swear, if you fall asleep on me- then the lack of blood will kill you! And would you like to-"

_**-become one of those with wings?**_

John blocked out Sherlock's prodding voice, his world had now gone black. Dully, he was aware of trembling fingers on his chest, his hands, his neck. But he could no longer hear words, define shapes….

The first time he saw them, he was a child. And they were ugly. As ugly as Sin, on the body of a rotting corpse- his father's.

In all his life, he wished he never had to see such a horrible sight. Those wings were mauled, warped beyond repair into things he should, _would,_ _**never**_ identify as a gift from the angels. They were bloody and torn-even more ragged and foul than the open-eyed corpse that stared lifelessly back at him.

As a child, he believed he was seeing things.

What else could he have said?

A _devil_ lay on the floor in front of him, and he was a creature John would never speak of again. Those wings haunted his memory ever since, the sheer steeliness of their span as prominent as the bitter hatred he often saw in his father's bloody stare.

John knew better at that time, than to believe in angels or fairy-tales.

And now, as he sifted through this new-found silence, he recalled the first time he ever glimpsed the most beautiful pair of wings in his life- and _of course_ they belonged to none other than Sherlock himself. In this blurred darkness, John smiled.

It was when Sherlock pointed the gun at the discarded bomb jacket.

It was his most triumphant moment-

-As well as his most shattering downfall.

That one minute as he watched Sherlock point the handgun directly at the bomb jacket, allowed a sliver of light to erupt through John's already muddied vision. And within that light, John saw, for the first time in his life, a pair of white wings. Wings so white, they blinded him.

Wings so white they terrified him into feeling thunderstruck.

It was like a slow motion effect- as the wings he glimpsed unfurled from their steady hold against Sherlock's back, the glimmer in his partner's eyes twinkled and set in his own resolve. Sherlock glanced to John, and it was all he could but nod quickly, knowing that if he spoke it would be of his own wonder at seeing something so mysterious, come alive, before his very eyes.

Later, Sherlock would question his look of astonishment, but for now, just for now, John had the immense honour of seeing for the first time the very true fact that Sherlock was, indeed, one among the angels.

A raindrop split over his thoughts, and he blinked. He looked upward from those wings, all the way to the ceiling of the swimming pool above him-

"-ohn! I can hear the ambulance-It's close! Lestrade is calling them in, so please open your eyes, now!"

It was raining? Where was this waterfall coming from?

John blinked fast against the sudden cold, and tilted his head up slightly, grimacing against the shivery air. The blackened haze he'd once slept willingly under still slithered in front of his eyes. He breathed fast, and looked into Sherlock's pleading eyes. Oh. _**Oh.**_

So that was where the rain came from.

He narrowed his sleep-riddled eyes, trying to place his thoughts, but he found it hard even to utter a calming word for his friend. He cleared his throat, and clenched his hand against the cobbled ground, and looked even further upward, toward the tops of buildings that seemed too close to the sky, and too far from him. Were they in an alleyway?

"Sh'lock," he grumbled suddenly, amazed even a word could come out of his mouth at this stage, and his head dipped back down suddenly, his eyes squeezing shut, shoulders hunching, whether from tension or swift worry, he did not know. "Ah, yeah, I-I can feel-now," he rushed out of his mouth, trying to make out the fact he could, yes, **he could**, feel the pain caused by the wound, and he distinctly heard Sherlock sigh in relief, as he held his friend, applying more pressure to a very red-stained jumper that was once beige. John squinted at the wound, and wondered-

"Wh-What-" he stuttered, before groaning, curling in as close as he could. He bit at his lip, gripping Sherlock's coat with more aggressiveness than he thought humanly possible. He thought he was nearly pulling Sherlock closer to the ground he lay on, but the pain was burning- and he- "M-More pressure, Sherlock, please-Apply more pressure, before I bleed to death, please-"

Abruptly, John cried out in pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing as fast as his pulsating heart could manage. Sherlock's arm around his back supported him as he sat up, and as he trembled from the agonising pain, he gripped him with the strength of a beast.

"Hold on, John, they're almost here, I can hear them- They're two minutes away, John, I promise, Lestrade is just in front of me, he's waving to them- Just stay awake, John, that's all you need to do, please don't die on me. Please, John, please don't fall asleep on me, I'm begging you, please," it all rushed out in incomprehensible sentences: Sherlock's own harboured pain, and John recognised how worried his partner was, before he chuckled, and then whimpered.

" 'S okay, don't worry, mate," he replied wearily, weakly, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder now. "Not going anywhere, promise."

He watched those white wings, fixed his eyes on them, and never in his life had he felt this need to keep these burning eyes open, just for a few more minutes, just until _they_ got here, won't be too long now. He felt a frantic need to keep both eyes on the only things that had the utmost control over his weary body, for the only person in the world who had the utmost control over his weary heart.

He kept his eyes placed on white and black spots, until he wasn't so sure that the white and black spots were real anymore.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared lifelessly at the white walls, unable to understand. In his hand, he held the cold coffee cup he got from the vending machine roughly two hours ago. He swallowed nervously, and he bit his lip in thought. He found it hard to understand, to take in, and he wished he could try to figure it out, but it consumed him, and then left him feeling empty.<p>

His elbows rested on his knees as he sat on the chair, and he crouched forward, staring at the white wall of the waiting room in the hospital.

He yawned, and started: he never felt tired.

Damn John and those sleepy eyes he had as they bundled him into the ambulance over three hours ago.

Lestrade sat silently beside him, and Sherlock was glad to admit he was not thinking at all. He was as quiet as Sherlock, and had remained that way for over an hour since he returned from the end of his shift. Tying up the loose ends from the runaway serial killer was tough, and he had a lot to explain to Donovon, who was shocked to hear what had happened, most especially when she heard John _dived _in front of Sherlock in order to stop the knife from hurting his friend. Lestrade knew Sherlock appreciated silence, and respected him enough not to speak, or think, about what could or could not be happening to John on the operating table.

Without warning, Sherlock finally spoke up, "I need your insight on something, Lestrade." Lestrade beside him blinked, his eyes unfocused once, now looking up to Sherlock's grey eyes. He cleared his throat, and pushed aside the idea that, yes, Sherlock did _technically speaking_, ask for his help. He licked his lips, arms folded over where they sat on his lap, and he peered at what lay beneath Sherlock's worried gaze. Something was indeed troubling the detective.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse from lack of speaking. "Something troubling you?"

"Well, yes, actually," Sherlock looked away, and his eyebrows came together as he studied the wall in front of him. "It's been at the back of my mind for a while, and when-when I saw John lying on the ground back there-" he shuddered. Lestrade studied him more seriously, and leaned forward, coming closer to Sherlock. "-John's been like this for a while… Whenever-" Sherlock bit his lip. "-I honestly-" he threw his hands up to the air, growing frustration on his face nearly causing Lestrade to ask him whether he was having a hard time explaining himself.

In the background, there was silence, the doctors, the nurses, far enough away to not hear their private conversation, and only the occasional sweep of feet gliding across clean floors could alert them to trespassers among their discussion. Lestrade looked away, down the massive corridor off to their right, and he watched those doors, the ones that would swing open at any time, and a doctor would walk through, good news or bad news for them riding on those shoulders. Any time now, and they would hear about John.

He looked back to Sherlock, who was grumbling almost to himself. It was amusing to see him talk aloud.

"Whenever John is-in trouble- he has this _bizarre_ habit of looking off into space-"

"Like all human beings who realise they may be dying, Sherlock," Lestrade told him patiently, cocking his head slightly to the side.

"- _No_-please don't interrupt, Lestrade. It sets off my train of thought," Sherlock put his hands together, cradling the long forgotten coffee cup in his hands. He stared absent-mindedly into the distance, before he continued. "-When we faced off Moriarty once before, John was in-**immense danger**-and, well, when I came up with a solution to the mess we were in, well, he stared at my back, I think, and-" he trailed off, and his eyes widened, before he looked over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes again. "Oh," he whispered silently. His mouth opened, as if to say something, but Lestrade was amazed to admit, he was dumbstruck.

"What is it, Sherlock?" he prodded. "Are you in shock, or something? Should I call a doctor?" His behaviour was worrying Lestrade, and he watched as Sherlock slowly looked back to him, confused. He swiftly looked back to the wall in front of him, as if trying to figure something out, and Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder, starting to become very nervous for his friend. The doctors never checked him over straight after he got to the hospital: he still had blood caked all over his coat, and his hands still carried remnants of John's blood on them.

"How can John be seeing _wings_, Lestrade?" Sherlock whispered, so low, that Lestrade could barely hear him. Sherlock's wandering eyes found his again, and he looked directly into them, so confused as to what was going through his mind. Lestrade stopped when he saw those eyes, slightly glinting with a hint of child-like wonder. And it dawned on him too.

"It wouldn't ever occur to you, would it?" he replied. When Sherlock continued to stare, at him, of all people in the world, he continued softly. "John has seen a lot more of the world than he would care to admit. Maybe, in a way, all that death and loss got to his head." When Sherlock didn't answer him, he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "Seriously, Sherlock, every human being in the world has ways of dealing with stress and violence and all the little, annoying things in between. If John deals with seeing you, of all people, wearing a pair of wings, then that's the way he deals with all the war and destruction he's seen. Honestly-" he continued, "-I'm not surprised he sees them, _if_ he does see them, as you drag him into those distressing situations all the time." He was chiding gently now, his hands coming undone in his lap, and lying on his legs.

Sherlock looked down at the floor. "You don't think there's something wrong?" he asked quietly, as if afraid for the answer. Lestrade scratched his head at that one.

"Well, _if_ John found out that seeing wings for him was 'wrong', I think he'd have had it checked out by now," he replied, "Besides," he added, "I think seeing wings on someone sounds, well-" he thought about it, before finding the right word, "-I think the fact John sees wings means he sees the good, and the bad, in people. Maybe it means he sees the good in you, too, Sherlock," he chuckled slightly at the idea. "Maybe that's why he's stuck with you all this time. Maybe it means, in essence, he really can't let you go."

Sherlock was calm now, and he smiled, actually smiled, at what Lestrade had said. Lestrade knew he was deep in thought again, over what he said, or over some other matter: he knew not. But his friend had been placated, and seeing Sherlock calm now, made him sigh inwardly. It made him feel that John was going to get better.

Maybe John _did_ have the gift of seeing wings when he was in danger. _Maybe_ it was a sign that everything, in the end, would be alright.

John would always be saved by those around him, the people who carried these wings, and by God himself, whenever he was in danger.

"Thank you, Lestrade," Sherlock said, quietly.

Lestrade genuinely thought now he was hearing things, but he smiled anyway, happy as he turned to see the surgeon walk through the swinging doors, with a reassuring smile on his face.

* * *

><p><em>John listened to the beeping of the heart monitor. It sounded animated, full of life, full of love, and he knew it had to be his own. Only his heart could sound like it was singing when he was in a hospital. Maybe it was a sign Sherlock was close. In the next moment, he felt a hand close around his, warm, comforting, and he knew he was safe.<em>

_He could feel the tickling of feathers against his fingers, and he knew those white and black speckled feathers were intertwined with his._

_He knew he was home._

* * *

><p><strong><em>AN: _**_H__appy Valentine's Day! Remember to spread the love to as many people as possible! _

_Love you all, as always!_

_R&R, please!_

_xoxoxoxox_


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